Chapter 9 - Lily
I never intended to become anyone’s wife, and especially not in these circumstances. Not to a man like Mikhail.
Certainly not before I even finished med school, acquired my residency, or walked across the stage with my degree in hand.
And yet, here I am. Sitting on the edge of the bed in a near stranger’s spare bedroom.
Looking down at the wedding ring makes my stomach turn, yet I can’t pull my eyes away from the way it glints.
I didn’t want it, I didn’t want to be in this condo, and I certainly didn’t want to be married to the man I thought I’d never see again after our hookup.
Still, I can’t go back and change any of it.
Going home with him and sleeping next to him was the worst decision I could’ve made.
I’m an idiot for ever entertaining it. For ever thinking he was just a rich guy with a charming smile and relatively innocent intentions.
I always tried to be careful, and I thought I was being exactly that. But I was completely wrong.
Now it’s Sunday, and I’ve hardly left the spare room since the ceremony yesterday. Even considering how close the events of Friday night were to this very moment is enough to make my head spin.
I know the door isn’t locked and that he’s at least being good on his word in that sense, I don’t want to go out and face the reality of both my stupid decision and his.
I don’t want to face what I’ve become in a weekend.
Mrs. Lukov.
My chest burns at even acknowledging it.
That name is infamous in Vegas, and while not everyone is aware of the extent of their operations, many have at least heard the name at some point.
Before my brother’s death, the name was nothing more than a secret whispered at parties, brought up to scare one another. It had the same effect as a myth, and many of us grew up believing it was nothing more than that.
After Wyatt died, it became something for me to hate. While the investigators concluded that he just got caught up in some lesser gang activity and happened to cross the wrong people, I didn’t.
I looked as deeply into it as I could, and along the way, I was reminded of the Lukovs and their overseeing of said gangs. It apparently isn’t uncommon for them to have desperate people on the streets doing the dirty work they don’t want to be tied directly to their name.
While I don’t have concrete proof that Mikhail or his siblings had anything to do with my brother’s murder, every instinct of mine is convinced.
Despite all of the darkness and poison surrounding that name, it’s now legally mine.
Trying to keep the panic from overwhelming me completely, I urge myself to stay numb. To force it down until I can vaguely breathe again.
But Monday is drawing closer and closer, and with it is the painful fact that I might not make it to class or to my scheduled labs.
If I miss even one day, I’ll fall behind, and I know as well as anyone else that there are no second chances. Not in such a competitive course.
Yet, I’ve been forced to hand over my autonomy to a man who doesn’t understand what I’ve been through or why this is so important to me.
Mikhail promised I wouldn’t miss out if I agreed to his terms, and now, putting my faith in him to actually follow through with it makes my stomach ache.
My heart starts beating, and I know I’m moments away from spiralling when the bedroom door opens.
I flinch on the spot, tensing like I’ve just been caught doing something I shouldn’t, and more knots form in my stomach as I realize it isn’t just Mikhail.
Two men I’ve never seen before enter ahead of him, both dressed in tailored suits with stoic, unwavering faces. They’re both carrying an almost comical number of bags and garment boxes, which they place neatly near the closet.
My brows furrow, and I watch with only confusion. “What is this?”
“Clothes,” Mikhail says simply while he follows behind them, giving the men a brief nod once everything has been dropped off. Then, he faces me. “If you’re staying here and planning on going back into the world, you’ll need something to wear.”
I don’t answer right away as I stare at the bags, seeing those unmistakable designer logos. Even the bags and boxes themselves scream luxury, and I know I have no business being anywhere near them.
While it makes sense, seeing as I can’t live in these clothes forever, something about it still stings.
Being given nice clothes almost feels like he’s attempted to brand me. At the very least, styling me how he wants. He’s molding me into the wife he wants, as if I somehow belong in this world of his.
Mikhail reaches into one of the bags and pulls out a thin black top. “Pick out something nice—I don’t care what. We’re having dinner with my family.”
My eyes immediately widen, and I freeze. “What?”
“Don’t sound surprised. The rest want to meet you.”
I blink back at him, well aware of how absurd that statement seems, given everything.
This hasn’t exactly been the most orthodox way for anyone to get married, and it’s not like we’re even dating. Yet, he makes it sound like his family have been anticipating this for some time. I don’t know what that’s supposed to tell me about them.
We were only married yesterday, and yet, we’re already doing this.
“You can’t be serious,” I murmur, dreading the thought of it.
“I’m dead serious.”
“There’s no way,” I manage to say, shaking my head while I stand. “I didn’t agree to this, and I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Mikhail’s gaze narrows slightly. “You agreed to marry me. This is just a byproduct of that.”
“Only because you blackmailed me.”
He shrugs. “And yet, you still have my last name.”
The reminder is enough to make my blood boil, and I force out a frustrated breath before moving to the window again, which has been my only saving grace. At the very least, I’ve been granted the chance to not be completely isolated from it all.
And yet, everything out there seems to mock me. All of that freedom being taken advantage of is more like a taunt than it ever has been.
The world keeps spinning while mine seems to be frozen in a perpetual nightmare.
I cross my arms. “I’m not playing dress-up and sitting down with your family like this is some kind of afterthought engagement dinner.”
“But you will. You can’t ignore my family forever.”
“So that’s what you want then? To drag me even deeper into this mess so I can’t escape?” I ask incredulously, struggling to see any bright side to this.
Mikhail sighs. “No, Lily. I’m planning on introducing my wife to my siblings. Surely, that isn’t such a big ask.”
But my heart nearly freezes over at the thought, and at the casual reminder dropped by him.
He calls me his wife with an edge of possession in his voice, and it makes the ice in my system hurt even more.
Somehow, I feel that it’s nothing more than a collar.
“You don’t own me,” I snap back. “I’m not a possession.”
“No, you aren’t. But that doesn’t negate the fact that you’re mine,” he returns calmly, but the slight warning edge in his eyes tells me he isn’t leaving any room to debate that fact.
I clench my jaw, trying to find any angle to work with to undermine his argument, but it seems almost impossible to achieve. “And how do you know they’ll even respect me? I’m not exactly one of you.”
“They will,” he says plainly, once again far too confident for his own good. “After tonight, and after they’ve met you.”
My brows pinch together, and I scowl to myself. “What, you’re doing this for them, too?”
He looks at me pointedly, almost like I’m being ridiculous. “I’m doing this so that nobody questions your place beside me, whether it’s my siblings or anyone out there. And eventually, everyone will know not to touch you—ever.”
I don’t immediately have anything to say to that. It’s the closest thing to genuine protection he has offered me so far, but it still feels manipulated somehow.
Shaking my head, I run a hand over my face again. “You don’t get it. I’m supposed to be studying my notes for Monday…not sitting through dinner with criminals.”
Mikhail steps forward close enough to make my skin prickle on instinct, but not close enough to touch. His gaze hardens, letting me know there is no room for resistance, regardless of how I cling to it.
“Pick something nice. You represent me now,” he says, voice still gentle enough regardless of the hardness bellying it.
I clench my jaw. “And if I don’t?”
He studies me closely, almost scrutinizing me. “Don’t push me.”
I know well enough that I shouldn’t test boundaries, but something in me still wants to while my eyes narrow.
Without another word, Mikhail leaves the room a moment later, leaving a chill in his wake.
I’m left standing near those bags and boxes full of luxury clothes, trying to find my nerve again. Trying to stomach the fact that I can’t get out of this, no matter how badly I want to.
It’s hard to say how long I stay like that, lost in disbelief and the urge to avoid anything that has to do with his family. Finally, I force myself to move, gravitating over to the mountain of new clothes.
One by one, I open up the contents and lay them out, taking stock of everything Mikhail bought for me.
There are far too many dresses for one person, along with the basics that don’t look basic at all. Every deep-toned fabric feels so intentional, as if Mikhail himself wanted me to blend in with him—emanating his own style, in a sense.
It’s all luxurious, and all tailored for someone with more confidence than I can muster in the moment.
Of course, there are even countless pairs of shoes and clutches. Everything to make the outfit of someone who hasn’t been coerced into this.
Regardless of how gorgeous the clothes are, and how ridiculously out of my league they all are, I can’t help but look at them like they’re prison uniforms.
It sounds ungrateful, but I can’t help it. That’s exactly what they are.
He wants me to fit into his world regardless of how dangerous it is, and I despise that fact.
Still, I know I have to put one on. If I don’t, then I’ll just look weak like I’m crumbling beneath the pressure. That I’m scared of them and their world.
That’s what they want me to do, surely.
Right now, I only have my resistance and stubbornness left.
After some silent deliberation with myself, I pick the simplest dress I can find. It’s black, floor-length, and more elegant than I’ll ever be able to fathom.
It’s reminiscent of the dress I wore when I met Mikhail, and somehow, I hope it haunts him.
I hope it stings.